Perceptive Travel

Getting Around in New Orleans, With a Side of Stories From the Uber Drivers
Story and photos by Karen Gershowitz

A visitor trying to navigate New Orleans amidst sticky heat and challenging streets gets the pulse of the city from drivers taking her from A to B.

"This is where I need to go," I yelled at the driver as he drove past what I knew was my destination. I was headed to a Saints' pre-game tailgate party.  "Nope. GPS says it is up ahead, on the other side of the Superdome," he answered. 

Traffic was dense, with Saints' and Lions' fans darting between cars. But we never came to a complete stop or I would have jumped out. I watched in dismay as he drove into an industrial area.

"This is it," the driver announced as he pulled up in front of a derelict building. 

"You're joking." But he wasn't. "I'm not getting out here. You need to take me back to the building we passed. That's where I need to be. I'm not walking through this area."

The driver grumbled but looked carefully at the map. "Damn! You're right." 

No shit, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. I was already late and now I would be very late. I should have just walked.

"Sorry about that. You were right. It's this damned Uber app. Every time it gets near tall buildings, it goes haywire." Under his breath I heard him mutter, f&%king GPS. I'm gonna lose money on this one.

He turned the car around and we headed into a morass of traffic. The cops assumed we were going into the parking lot and insisted the driver join the line of cars creeping towards the Superdome. 

The driver turned to me and looked contrite. "I'm really sorry. This isn't the first time the GPS has sent me to the wrong place. I just moved here a month ago and don't know the city well, so I rely on the app."

I was more than a little annoyed, but figured I might as well make the best of it. "Where are you from?" 

"Charlotte."

"What brought you here?"

"My girlfriend got a job she's dreamed about for years. She's a zoologist and was offered a plum position at the Audubon Zoo."

"That's great. What about you? I assume being an Uber driver isn't your dream career."

He chuckled. "You're damned right. I'm an IT guy. I work remotely, so it doesn't really matter where I live."

"So why Uber?"

"It's a good way to learn the city. Laura, that's my girlfriend, works weekends. I don't know many people, so I figured why not?"

We were still creeping along and far from where I was going. "So, what have you learned about NOLA?" 

He paused a moment. "The city's streets have potholes on top of potholes. Using Google Maps, especially as translated by Uber, is like trying to navigate a maze." He thought for a moment and added, "Tourists in the French Quarter seem convinced that every road leads to Bourbon Street and that when they're there, they have an order from up high that they need to get drunk."

"Yeah, I've been here enough times to know to avoid Bourbon Street."

He brushed off what I was saying with a wave of his hand. "And let's not forget the humidity; it's not just a weather condition here, it's a lifestyle. Trust me, my car's air conditioning has never worked so hard, and this is autumn. If I leave crackers open on the counter, when I get back, they're soggy. But hey, the parties are great. The joie de vivre is a real thing. The city is definitely growing on me."

He turned around to look at me. This was the first time I saw his face. He was young, maybe late twenties, and a very good-looking guy with dark, piercing eyes. "Really sorry about this.  You might want to hop out here. It's not very far." 

That was the first of many rides I took while in New Orleans. It was hot one day, rainy the next. My back hurt. My hotel was in the central business district, far from anywhere I wanted to go. All were good reasons for not walking. Every ride was different and enlightening as I engaged drivers in conversation. It became a way to learn about life in the Big Easy.

A Chilled Ride to a Hot Christmas Parade

"You're Karen, right?"

"I am. Heading to Decatur Street."

"Make yourself comfortable. Grab a water, it's hot out there."

"Will do." I slid onto the seat, luxuriating in the AC. "This is the nicest Uber I've ever been in." I was telling the truth. It was a brand-new SUV, with leather seats and more than enough legroom. Bottles of water were lined up in the backseat's pocket. When the traffic in front of us stopped, I really appreciated the comfort.

"Oh no," the driver said. "They're closing off streets again."

"Any idea why?"

"Happens all the time. Sometimes there's a second line" (The revelers who fall in behind the hearse and family in a funeral parade.) "Sometimes it's a police action. Often, I never do find out." He looked in the mirrors, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the street a bit too fast for my liking. He wanted to get out before someone boxed him in. As I watched in amazement, he pulled into a parking lot, sped through it, came out onto a parallel street, and turned into another parking lot. 

"Somehow, I don't think GPS is giving you these directions," I said.  

"Naw. I've been driving around here since I was a teenager. I know all the shortcuts. Don't bother with GPS." As he bumped over a curb and emerged onto another street, he made a sharp left. "Don't you worry, I'll get you there."

"I'm not worried. You're the first NOLA native I've met.  Everyone seems to be a transplant, kind of like where I'm from, New York City."

"Depends where you are in NOLA. Go to the Ninth Ward, Lakeview, or St. Bernard Parish and most ever'body grew up round here. Course, after Katrina, there's a whole lot fewer folk."

"What happened with you during Katrina?"

"It was bad. Real bad. Never seen nothing like it. We got out, went to my in-laws in Tennessee. Couldn't wait to get back here. When we did get back ever'thing in the house was soaked. Then there was black mold. Took three whole years 'fore we could move back permanent-like. Bunch of our neighbors never came back." 

He took a deep breath and stopped chatting as he stepped on the brakes and the car came to a complete stop. In front of us, police were directing irate drivers away from going deeper into the French Quarter. He shook his head as we inched forward. "This is my home, but there are times...and I don't mean the weather." When we were near the police officer, he opened the window and asked, "What's going on?"

"Parade's coming through soon. Trying to get cars away from the route."

"What parade?" he asked. I was curious too.

"Christmas parade." The officer flashed a toothy smile. "Santa and bands and all the usual crazy."

"Any way I can get to Decatur and Ursulines? This nice lady tryin' to get there."

"This is 'bout as close as you gonna get," the officer said.

Traffic wasn't moving at all.  "Sorry, but you might as well get out here. Ain't too far."

It was far, and it was hot. I missed the tour I'd been scheduled to take. But the parade was a good trade-off; a mix of Mardi Gras, Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, and uniquely New Orleans. It was great fun. I caught beads, shook hands with a rolling Elvi (part of a band of Elvis impersonators), had chocolate, a bag of Halloween candy, and several plastic cups given to me.

Then came the rain. First a drizzle, then a deafening thunderclap and a deluge of fat raindrops. I ran for cover, the parade marched on.

I watched from inside the shelter of a cafe. There I ate crawfish étouffée, drank a warming cup of coffee with chicory while watching kids, who despite the storm continued to march, play instruments, and shimmy down the parade route. A woman sitting next to me offered me a sugary beignet, which I simply could not refuse. 

Singing in the Rain in New Orleans

When the rain petered off a bit, I started walking back to the hotel—streets were still closed to cars. I hadn't gotten far when the skies reopened. I got soaked. My back screamed in pain. How in God's name would I get back to the hotel? I looked for a pedicab. It was the only way to go—the parade was still marching on; traffic was banned blocks away from the festivities. 

A young woman pedaling a flaming red pedicab adorned with plastic flowers and covered by a sheet of plastic came to my rescue. "Where you headed, hon?" I named the hotel. "Wrong direction, sorry." I groaned. "Let me see what I can do. Get out of the rain. Hop in."

She called a friend and persuaded her to come to our location and take me to my hotel. As the second woman pedaled up and stopped, I eased out of one pedicab and dashed into the other. 

I thanked the first driver profusely and handed her a tip. "Where ARE you headed?" I asked, curious as to why she refused my ride. "There's a second line I want to get to." With that, she pedaled off.

The new, very young, and attractive driver was chatty as we took off. "Here we go on this perfect day for duckies!" She began to sing Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head. I feared my back would go out as we sped on the very bumpy, pothole ridden street. But I was so grateful for the ride and her cheery demeanor, I put all thoughts of pain aside and joined in singing with her. 

When we finished, I asked, "Where are you from? You definitely don't have a New Orleans accent." 

"You're right about that. I'm from Ohio."

"That's got to be quite a change. How long have you been living here?"

"Almost a year this time around." She went on to tell me she'd graduated from Tulane, returned to her parents' home, and got a job. She was bored there. "Even with all the problems here, it beats the hell out of Akron. Here the population is young, there's always something to do, and it's just plain fun. I can't even imagine going back to Akron."

"Do you think you'll stay here permanently?"

"Probably not. It's tough to get work here and I don't want to do this much longer." She waved her hand at the pedicab. 

"Where would you like to go?"

"I'm not sure. I keep thinking about it but can't make up my mind. I've got friends here and know the city, but it feels temporary. Guess when I get totally fed up, I'll decide."

Logistics Plans Won't Help...

That evening, I set off for Magazine Street for their holiday champagne stroll. Stores along the route offered glasses of bubbly to shoppers. At the end of the route, quite a distance from my hotel, was the restaurant where I had a dinner reservation. Meal finished; I went onto the Uber app for a ride back. 

As I got into the car, the driver said, "You're my last ride for the night. Almost went home, but when I saw the location, I figured it would be okay."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I don't like driving at night. Too many drunks. Too many sloppy drunks. Too many party people." He paused for a moment, then went on. "Fortunately, I don't need the money. I'm retired. I do this because it gets me out of the house and I can be my own boss."

"If you don't mind me asking, what did you do before you retired?"

"I was in the military, a marine." 

I wasn't surprised. Even from behind, I could see he had ramrod straight posture. His hair was close cropped and his leather jacket gave me the feeling he was a careful dresser. His manner of speaking gave off an air of authority.  

"Then I was in DC at the Pentagon, a civilian working on logistics."

"What brought you here?"

He told me he was originally from Atlanta. His mother had moved to NOLA to be with her sister. When his aunt died, his mother, who was quite elderly, was alone. He felt he needed to take care of her. "I'd already retired, and I was divorced. My kids were out of college and on their own. So, I came down here. That was four years ago. My mother passed on last year. Now I'm cleaning up the loose ends."

"And when that's done?" I asked.

"Probably go to Atlanta. That's always felt like home to me, even though I've lived all over the world."

I asked what his feelings were about New Orleans. 

"Not my kind of place. Not at all."

"Why not?" I was interested in hearing what he would say.

"I am not a party person. At least not the kind of party person who loves it here. And this city is corrupt. Everyone in the government is on the take. Poverty is rampant. Education is terrible. Crime—well, let's not go there. It's a dangerous place to live." 

We were nearing my hotel. I had one final question for him. "You've worked on logistics at high levels. What would make a difference here?"

He groaned. "You've no idea how many people have asked me that." He turned to look at me. "Or asked me to run for office. My answer is always no."

"But you must have some ideas, don't you?"

"Yes, but we're talking about a major overhaul that would take years, probably decades. I'm not young anymore and don't have the energy. And the hardest part would be to change the culture. I can do logistics, but changing a culture..." His voice trailed off.   

A Parting Shot at a Temporary Home

On my final morning in New Orleans, I was headed to Budget Car Rental's downtown office. As I got into the Uber, the driver stowed my luggage in the trunk.  Once we'd pulled into the street, he asked me, "Your first visit to New Orleans?"

"Actually, I've been here many times," I told him. "This has been a short visit. I'm heading out west, to Lafayette and Cajun country."

"Good idea. This place is fun for a few days, then most everyone has had enough."

"I like it a lot. The food is great, the music is great and there's always lots to do," I said. "But I don't think I'd want to live here." I paused, then asked, "What about you? Are you from here or a transplant?"

"I'm from near Nashville. Came here a long time ago for the music scene."

"So, you didn't have enough after a few days? You stuck around."

"Yeah. I got a bunch of gigs; met my wife and it's been decades that I'm here." When we stopped at a light he partially turned around to face me. His chubby cheeks reminded me of the statue of Louis Armstrong I'd seen the day before. He shook his head, "if I could get out of here, I would."

"Why?  What makes you unhappy here?"

We were driving down Canal Street. He pointed to a construction site. "That was supposed to be the Hard Rock Hotel. Crews were working on it when the whole thing collapsed. Bunch of people died and lots got injured. And why? Because the inspectors didn't do their job. Someone paid them off."

"Oh my God," I interjected. "When was that?"

"A few years back, before the pandemic. 2019, I think. But that's typical of what goes on here. Now they're working on the hotel at a site a few blocks away. Probably this time it's being inspected because it got so much terrible publicity. But I'm sure the same thing is happening all over the place."

He shrugged. "Sidewalks don't get repaired; infrastructure is falling apart. They rebuilt after Katrina but it hasn't been tested yet. Some of what's been put up is right in the flood zone and people still move in. Fools."

"Yeah," I said. "I read about that."

We were nearing the rental car location. I asked the driver, "Do you feel safe here?"

He pointed to his glove box. "I've got a Glock in there. Never had to use it, but knowing I've got it makes me feel as safe as I'm gonna get."

As I rolled my suitcase into the Budget office, ready to explore beyond the Big Easy, I thought about all I'd seen and heard. I'd been chauffeured by some of the city's most candid guides, people who navigated the city streets daily.

Each one offered a unique view, reflecting a facet of New Orleans' complex character. They saw perspectives of the city not described in any guidebook. From the techno-savvy newcomer to the seasoned local to the returning college student, each had a different take on life there. Their stories confirmed my feelings that NOLA is a city where the joy of life is cheek-to-cheek with some ominous shadows.

But I'd only experienced the city as a tourist. Most of the drivers offered a view of a city they know well and fiercely loved or hated and critically examined. For them, New Orleans is not just a backdrop for parties, Mardi Gras, and great food. It is a living, breathing entity, grappling with a slew of profound challenges.

Karen Gershowitz is a professional writer specializing in travel, business strategy, and marketing communication in all media. She is the author of Travel Mania: Stories of Wanderlust, the inspiring adventures of a woman passionately committed to travel, and Wanderlust: Extraordinary People, Quirky Places and Curious Cuisine. She is a regular Contributor to JourneyWoman and International SWANS.

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